Puppet of the Unseen

Two steps forward,

a hundred steps back.

The most visible of invisible threads

make me dance to their tune

and drag me

into nameless directions.

Within me

there is a strangely powerful urge

to want

nothing at all.

In the faint glimmer of my nonexistent existence

there lives a quiet, stubborn longing

for non-being.

I push myself

toward danger,

hoping

the bird of nothingness

might choose me,

take me into its arms,

and hide me

forever

beneath its wings.

Everything I was supposed to know — I know.

And yet

I remain

overflowing with unknowns.

I like to think

I am not the puppet

of this shadow play of a world,

and yet

more than any puppet,

I am bound

to strings.

An invisible cord

is knotted to my being

and pulls me

mercilessly

from side to side.

And resistance —

an empty word.

Is it not true

that we are all

playthings of a fate

whose name we hardly dare to speak?

I am weary

of this hollow world —

even more

of the emptiness dwelling within me.

Wherever I go,

I arrive

at the same end:

void,

nothingness.

Non-being

is the truest form

of my being.

I have tasted nothingness,

and its sweetness

has lingered on my tongue —

for existence

has never

placed any fruit

in my hands.

I have not walked

the path from being to nothingness,

for I have never

truly lived

in the realm of being.

Cast out from existence,

left behind by nothingness.

I no longer care

which hands

led me to the edge of this void —

I was empty

long before.

People

are my oldest wound.

Their presence,

their absence —

both

are forms of torment.

I do not want them.

Their existence

is merely another footnote

to nothingness.

They walk you

to the edge of the cliff,

and the moment

you stand there,

they begin to blame you.

They never show you the road,

yet

they expect you

to have memorized

all of existence.

And in the end,

it is you —

the one who slipped

toward nothingness —

who is marked

by their cold fingers:

Rejected.